


Everything That Sings and Sounds (And Sighs, In Its Turn)

by honey_wheeler



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotions, F/M, Missing Scene, Nosy Dragons, Outdoor Sex, Post-episode fic, episode s08e01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-04-16
Packaged: 2020-01-14 23:10:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18486355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: It’s a bit like a banquet after starving for years, or gaining riches after a lifetime of penury. The freedom to touch, to kiss, to surrender to desire, tofeel… It’s almost more than Jon knows how to handle. He tests it now, dipping his head to skate the tip of his nose over her jaw, to lave the notch at the base of her throat with his tongue. Dany smiles, feline and contented, tilts her head back to give him greater access. It’s humbling, somehow. It’s impossible. It’s everything he hadn’t known to want, something that would be so terrifying to lose that he buries the idea somewhere deep in his heart, deeper than his deepest fears. He wouldhave, for once, truly have, before he worries about losing.Warning: S08E01 episode spoilers.





	Everything That Sings and Sounds (And Sighs, In Its Turn)

**Author's Note:**

> Set during S08E01, after Jon and Dany's moment near the waterfalls.

It’s a luxury he’d never anticipated. Even after he’d left the Night’s Watch, his vows as dead as his body had been, there had been greater worries than pleasure or simple contact, more pressing concerns than human warmth. Whatever he came back as, he wasn’t sure it was entirely human anyway – not when he remembered the bulge of Olly’s eyes as he hung from a noose Jon might as well have tied himself – so the coldness he always felt seemed like a just consequence, the rightful state for a man whose sole concern was destroying the monsters before they could destroy him, and everyone else along with him.

He looks at Daenerys now and wonders how he didn’t notice when he began to thaw.

It’s a bit like a banquet after starving for years, or gaining riches after a lifetime of penury. The freedom to touch, to kiss, to surrender to desire, to _feel_ … It’s almost more than Jon knows how to handle. He tests it now, dipping his head to skate the tip of his nose over her jaw, to lave the notch at the base of her throat with his tongue. Dany smiles, feline and contented, tilts her head back to give him greater access. It’s humbling, somehow. It’s impossible. It’s everything he hadn’t known to want, something that would be so terrifying to lose that he buries the idea somewhere deep in his heart, deeper than his deepest fears. He would _have_ , for once, truly have, before he worries about losing.

He’d known pleasure with Ygritte, and passion, and something like love, though the farther away those times grew, the more he wondered if it was love after all, or some more complicated mix of emotions he may never live long enough to learn how to name. But always underneath was a sense of imminent doom, of danger and betrayal – of the Night’s Watch, of Ygritte, of himself, even – running below everything like the underground springs that are said to heat Winterfell’s rooms even on the coldest night.

It’s a different danger he faces now, but he’s found that having an equal danger on his side – one that can swallow an aurochs whole – makes things feel a bit safer. 

The true difference, though, he thinks, is hope. The kind of hope that can make him forget all the horrors and strife beating down his door for a moment, for just one single, selfish, intoxicating moment.

“Your warming skills are quite serviceable.” Daenerys is panting, flushed, her eyes glazed with pleasure and her chest stained pink. Jon props himself on both elbows, wanting to spare her his weight, forever mindful of how slight she is, but needing to be close, needing to see her face so near that her features almost break up into separate parts. The snow gives under his elbows and knees, but whatever cold might seep through the piled furs and leathers beneath them is chased away by the heat radiating off Drogon’s ribcage.

“I had help,” Jon notes, jerking his chin towards Drogon, or more accurately, Drogon’s elbow, behind which they’re situated. After the somewhat menacing looks as they kissed earlier, Drogon had the good taste to gaze off at the horizon as Jon and Dany coupled in the warm shelter of his bulk, the amorous pursuits of humans perhaps proving of little interest to such a beast. Dany seems unfazed by such proximity, but Jon had almost been too nervous about the possibility of Drogon suddenly deciding to play the protector again to fully lose himself in pleasure with her.

Almost.

“I have to admit,” he says, stroking the sweat damp hair from her eyes with both hands before framing her face and smiling down at her. “I hadn’t imagined a dragon’s…well, a dragon’s armpit would be such a suitable place for lovemaking.” He pauses and makes an exaggerated expression of thoughtfulness, half wondering at who this playful person is that he’s become. “Or warm-making, as the case may be.” 

Dany’s peal of laughter is as bright as a silver bell. “Please tell me we’re not adopting that euphemism.”

Before Jon can answer – or flirt back, more like it, gods help him – a hot gust against his thighs, or more accurately what’s between them, has him scrambling to his knees with a yelp. His back collides with Rhaegal’s nose, though calling it a nose is a bit like calling the Wall a fence; most noses don’t have bumpy spikes the size of cobblestones, or nostrils he could fit his fist into with room to spare. Possibly even his head.

Daenerys’s laughter doubles as Rhaegal snakes his massive head around, investigating Jon so thoroughly that he surrenders to the instinctive urge to cover his crotch with both hands, despite knowing that it will only increase Dany’s laughter, rather than lessen it. He hasn’t been so concerned about his cock and ballocks since the cook’s meanest kitchen wench caught him and Robb pilfering choice scraps of meat from the larder for Grey Wind and Ghost.

“The last time I was inspected so closely a Maester was involved,” Jon jokes weakly, preoccupied with protecting various tender body parts from Rhaegal’s determined snout. Dany laughs again and lets her small foot slide up his bare thigh until her toes bump against his knuckles where they’re still providing fortifications for his vulnerable spots, not to mention his dignity. She stretches, sublimely unconcerned with either her nudity or her dragon’s fiery-breathed curiosity. For a moment, Rhaegal’s proddings fade in contrast to the picture she presents, and as Jon makes no reaction, Rhaegal loses interest and lowers his head to doze in the sun. 

Only once was Jon with Ygritte where they were both fully bare; usually they coupled under stinking furs and leathers, concealed in darkness, the movements hurried and nearly desperate. That time in the cave was the first time he saw the jutting bones and shallow dips of the body he’d learned so well through touch, saw her skin the blue-white color of milk with the cream skinned off, spangled with freckles, decorated by bruises and scars that mirrored his own, her thatch of maidenhair as kissed by fire as the hair on her head. She’d stood before him with her chin raised, defiant more than proud, challenging more than inviting. He hadn’t asked, but he would stake his life she’d never been bare before anyone either. That she was as green and young as he, though she’d not been a maid when they met. The way he had been.

He feels like a maid again now, confronted with Dany’s ease, her unconscious acceptance of her body, her nudity, her sensuality. He knows some of her life before; time is in abundance on an ocean voyage. Many a night they’d lain together in her bed after their coupling, the lamplight guttering and the rigging creaking as they spoke of their lives before each other. Jon told her of Ygritte, of Melisandre’s attempted seduction, even of Ros and her perfect breasts back when he was an untouched boy too scared to want what he knew he couldn’t have. In turn, she’d told him of her husbands, her lover, of the solicitous ministrations of one of her handmaidens when she was little more than a girl, a confession that had fired his imagination so thoroughly that his only recourse was to settle his mouth between her legs and make her come until she pushed him away with her heels, too sore and sensitive for a single more peak. 

Once, Jon had felt so full of longing and unruly desire that he felt sure it needed to be hidden away, controlled, the sort of thing meted out only in measured doses, were he the type of man to have the luxury of such pleasures. Having a taste of what he’d missed with Ygritte only made him all the more certain that desires could be dangerous, and that _wanting_ was best held in with a tight rein. Daenerys had broken that control. She’d met his every desire with the same ease she shows now, nude and spread across furs as white as her hair, blazing like a beacon of pure light under the glare of the sun, here on this snow-crusted plain far from everything she’s ever known in life.

It’s a shock to realize that such ease might become Jon’s as well now. That this is something he does. This is something he _is_.

She must notice the look on his face, because her smile softens from amusement to tenderness. “You get used to it,” she says.

_Which,_ he thinks, _the dragons, the sex, or the beautiful woman?_ , but the words don’t pass his lips. The idea of such wonders becoming commonplace is too sad to be considered when those wonders are here, living and breathing at his fingertips. Jon has welcomed melancholy as he would a friend far too many times in his life to do so again now. Instead he stretches his body atop hers and kisses her again, reveling in the ready warmth of her embrace, the bold stroke of her tongue on his. The world can intrude after he’s felt her shudder once, twice, thrice again, after he’s swallowed her cries of pleasure the way he’d drink the finest wine and thirst only for more.

Just this once, he thinks. Just this once when melancholy knocks, Jon will bar the door instead.

 

*  
_Title translated from "Les oiseaux dans la charmille," Le Contes d'Hoffman, by Jacques Offenbach_


End file.
